Pure a little salt (we were never here)
by ibuzoo
Summary: "I won't let you die," he murmurs reassuring against the shell of her ear but his voice splits when he shapes the syllables, almost as if the fear paralyzes him, terrified that he won't find a solution, that he can't keep his promise. She still doesn't believe him but she's too tired to fight against it so she keeps silent and watches dust corns and particles floating in the air.


**Pure a little salt (we were never here)**

**Prompt:** End

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Magical AU / a spell goes terribly wrong / they're condemned to die

**Word count:** 1575

**A/N: **This is a magical AU which means magic is real but it's not a canon divergence story, nor any indications to canon at all. The whole story is based in the Riddle mansion where Tom uses a spell that goes terrible wrong and condemns all of them to die. You'll see how it works out if you give it a try.

**o.**

A wide field of poppies stretches behind the Riddle mansion, spreads far to the horizon and thick droplets of morning dew catch on cardinal and folly petals that glisten electric crimson and vermilion in the bright morning sun.

A high wind rocks over their sensible buds and it sounds like a faint lullaby when the air starts to sing, but not a single petal rips off.

Almost like magic.

**i.**

Never play around with dark magic, everyone always says and Hermione should have listened, should have stopped him but the moment Tom wields his wand with the precision of a serial killer and speaks tongues and spells she never knew, everything else leaves her mind. Because Tom is clever, Tom is perfect, Tom breathes magic and his self-preservation instinct kicks in as soon as his experiments get too dangerous.

But this time it's different and she realises it as soon as she sees the way Bellatrix clenches her jaw and Rodolphus knuckles turn white while Nott's face is twisted from panic, blank and eyes blown wide so she can see little freckles of lavender in his bright blue eyes. Abraxas is the first one to talk and when he does, Hermione buries her fingers deeper in the fabric of Tom's cotton shirt, "So this is the end?"

Tom rests silent, breathes heavy while his muscles in his neck tense up, stand out against his alabaster skin and when he nods his motion is sharp and frosty, an ice floe right before it breaks.

"Fuck," Abraxas replies without a second thought while her fingers claw tighter around Tom's arm - but she stays silent.

In her mind she couldn't agree more.

**ii.**

"How much time is left?", her voice is steady, calm as the night and she weights their options while her hands grasp thick leather tomes from the shelves to skim texts and spells for any indication or solution for their problem. His hands capture her arms, swirl her around until her eyes are fixed on his and she discovers something maniac in the grey storms, something perilous that elucidates he'd go at any lengths to let her live.

"You won't die. I won't let you."

He kisses her once, hard, radical, and when he turns around she convinces herself she doesn't see his shoulders drop.

**iii.**

She doesn't believe him.

**iv.**

He kills Nott that night because Nott is the youngest and the one with the least experience of them all and his panic starts to affect the others, creeps in their veins to poison their minds. When he returns his knuckles are white around his wand with crimson veins running under his thin skin and when he speaks his voice is toneless, almost jaded, "There's not enough time."

He disappears in the bathroom and she lights a single candle as a memento for their loss.

**v.**

There's never enough time.

**vi.**

Time is flowing in a river and their days are haunted, dreamlike while her mind is trapped in books of dark arts to stop the spell Tom casted days ago and each time the clock strikes full hour another pearl of sweat catches in her nape. They will die and they will end here, caged in the old Riddle mansion and Hermione can see how it dawns on each of them, slowly, carefully because knowledge is a lazy beast, knowledge is humanity's downfall.

So it's Mulciber who dies before Rosier, Rosier who falls like a soldier next and Tom washes his hands afterwards as hard as he washed them the night he killed Nott - even though Nott's blood was, so far as any of them knew, as clean as a whistle and he might have outlived them all.

**vii.**

Antonin kills himself the day after and Hermione lights the candles and prays.

_(the clocks chime noon and it leaves a tingling feeling on her skin, like thousands bugs that rip little pieces out of her flesh)_

**viii.**

She clutches Tom's body like a blanket at night and hides her face in the crook of his neck while her wand rests firm and solid in her palm, always ready to attack if someone dares to interrupt them. Sleep is the last thing on their mind and their eyes are wide awake when they talk about the past, the present but never about the future because both of them know they will not survive this, not this time.

"I won't let you die," he murmurs reassuring against the shell of her ear but his voice splits when he shapes the syllables, almost as if the fear paralyses him, terrified that he won't find a solution, that he can't keep his promise.

She still doesn't believe him but she's too tired to fight against it so she keeps silent and watches dust corns and particles floating in the air.

**ix.**

Greyback claws his way through Rockwood's chest as soon as the moon casts his brilliant white light on the night sky, rips his heart out with his teeth and gnaws on bones and flesh when Avery finds them. Persian and lime green curses shoot out of Tom's wand and both bodies fall immobile to the carpet, soak the inflated hessian fabric until the treats are crimson red.

The only witness is the moon which casts bluish shades on both corpses, bright and clear, paints them almost grotesque - he turns around and leaves the room.

**x.**

There is never enough time.

_(she watches black sand grains in an hourglass that he conjured to measure the time and with each falling grain she wonders when the end will come)_

**xi.**

They corner her in the mustard-coloured kitchen between an old oak table and the stainless-steel sink and her fingers clench around the cold wood of her wand while Bellatrix' cackle rings in her ears, echoes from the walls. She spits curse after curse to counter against three dark wizards and the Crutiatus lingers on her tongue like a succulent juice, like honey but before she can drop it off her lips a bright green flash dashes through the room.

It rages and soars, ricochet from the walls and the magic vibrates through her body, a power beyond compare. A second later Bellatrix hits the floor, Rodolphus and Rabastan soon after and Hermione breathes, trembles.

Tom washes his hands in the sink, scrubs them clean with a bar of ph-neutral soap until the skin is cracked and red and he whispers maniac, over and over again, "I won't let you die."

She wishes she could believe him.

**xii.**

Their time is running out and the air gets rare while other symptoms increase - the pain in their lungs, the muscles that run stiff - and Hermione no longer believes it's possible to keep her hands clean anyway.

_(that's for people who don't believe in love)_

She's ready and Abraxas doesn't see her coming, doesn't suspect anything when the spell falls from her lips easily, nothing but a fading moment before his eyes lose their glimmer and his body hits dark linoleum and she loves, loves so much because Tom is everything, they're everything, they're infinity.

_(Tom finds an hour later and when he coughs a trail of saliva and blood lingers at the corner of his mouth)_

**xiii.**

There's never enough time.

She breaks their clocks out of spite.

**xiv.**

That night the rain is harsh on the rooftop while the wind and his soldiers wage war against the curtains adorning their open windows when Tom kisses her, open and warm and needing because they're the only ones left, the only ones alive and how long will it take before the curse will finally claim its prices.

"I wish we'd do this when we're not going to die," Hermione presses out and Tom's hands are everywhere, under her shirt, on the inside of her thighs and she bites at his neck, presses her feverish front to his cheek when he grunts out, certain, almost panicky, "You're not going to die, I won't let you."

I know, she thinks, closes her eyes and tugs him closer, buries her fingers in the hem of his sweatshirt, thinks further, but you're a good liar.

**xv.**

They lie side by side on the hard wooden floor of the library, hands touching but bodies stretched away from each other and her eyes are fixed on Tom's serene face and the way his chest heaves with every rattling breath he takes. His lips are chapped and colourless, almost white and she waits, listens to his stertorous wheezing with dead emotions.

When he finally stops, she does too.

_(the last black grains in the hourglass drizzle on top before they faint in frosty night)_

**xvi.**

They take their last breath with the rise of the sun, eyes blown wide while the sticky, muggy air burns its way through their lungs, fills them with porous clumpy gore.

An hour later there's nothing left but dust.

Behind the mansion a dead field of withered poppies stretches over the Riddle garden, lifeless and grey and when the cold October wind blows over the land, the stems sway rhythmically to the song of mourning banshees.

There's a single poppy hidden between its dead brothers and sisters and the sun rays brighten its petals in ruby and scarlet while it beards against any weather.

Not even the wind can blow it away.


End file.
